


A Melody in a Penny Arcade

by lovecatcadillac



Category: Bomb Girls
Genre: 1920s, 1930s, F/F, Female Friendship, First Crush, Gen, Pre-show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-22 15:25:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovecatcadillac/pseuds/lovecatcadillac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It wouldn’t be make-believe if you believed in me.</i> Who were Betty, Kate and Gladys at fifteen?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1928 - Betty

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: This chapter makes reference to several things that happened in my fic _Trouble,_ although it is not necessary to read one in order to understand the other. Title is from _Paper Moon_ by Nat King Cole.  
>  Disclaimer: All characters and environments belong to Michael MacLennan and Adrienne Mitchell/Global/Shaw Media.

It’s Friday night, and all the young people in town are crowding the dance hall. From kids of thirteen, right up to old-timers of twenty-one, rich girls and poor boys, people who work and people who go to school, this is the place to be seen.

Betty wouldn’t have turned up at all, only her girl cousins landed her in it by yammering about the dance in front of Betty’s mother. Betty almost had Mom convinced that she would much rather stay in and help with the mending – until Nora just _happened_ to drop into the conversation that Betty had been asked to the dance by none other than Calvin Sturbridge. Apparently, he’s quite cute now that his pimples have cleared up. Personally, Betty can’t see it, but Mom sure could.

 _Bloody Mavis. Bloody Nora. They didn’t even want me here, they just wanted to see me squirm,_ Betty thinks, scowling at the tiles in the girls’ cloakroom, where she’s been hiding for the past hour and a half.

Mavis is a year older than Betty, and Nora is a year younger. Their sister Lillie was two years older than Betty, but she died three years ago. She knows that Nora and Mavis miss Lillie something fierce, but Betty doesn’t. She’s sorry Lillie died, but she can’t pretend she liked Lillie all that much. It’s Betty’s biggest secret, the fact that she doesn’t miss Lillie. At Lillie’s ninth birthday, she got all her friends to chase Betty around the house, screeching, “Are you a boy or a girl? Are you a boy or a girl?” until Betty locked herself in the outhouse to try and escape them.

“I’m a girl, I’m a girl,” Betty yelled.

They pounded on the door and walls with feet and fists, chanting, “It says it’s a girl!” Betty doesn’t believe in Hell, but if she did, she’d bet anything that souls in torment sound like nine-year-old girls screaming. They didn’t let up until Betty’s Aunt Joan called them in for birthday cake. Betty waited until she could hear them singing _Happy Birthday_ to creep out of the outhouse, climb over the fence, and walk home.

There’s a picture of that day in her cousins’ photograph album. Betty is wearing her Sunday dress with two layers of petticoats and a bow in her hair. She looks just like any of the other little girls in the picture (in fact, she’s almost indistinguishable from Nora - they looked very alike as children, but not so much now). Why did they keep calling her a boy?

Other girls have always been able to tell that there’s something funny about Betty. Marge Thompson and Josie Cutler have been cloistered in here for the past ten minutes, exhaustively discussing the boys they’re sweet on. They keep looking at Betty and spluttering with laughter. Betty would pull a hideous face at them (her brothers taught her to make truly terrifying ones when she was two), but she’s fifteen now, a working woman. She doesn’t do kid stuff like that any more. Instead, she just glares.

Finally, Marge addresses her. “Hey, Girl McRae! D’you know Cal Sturbridge is looking for you?”

“Well, I ain’t lookin’ for him. Don’t you dare tell him I’m here.”

Marge and Josie exchange a glance. “I think your cousin Mavis already told him,” says Josie.

Betty’s shoulders slump. _Trust Mavis!_ “Either of you got a cigarette?”

They shake their heads, giggling incredulously. Betty forgets about being grown up long enough to cross her eyes behind their backs as they leave.

They haven’t been gone for half a minute when a new flock of girls comes streaming into the tiny bathroom. Betty gets elbowed into a corner. Usually, she would elbow them back, only she’s become momentarily paralysed, because one of the girls is Shirley Rose, the prettiest girl at this dance or any other.

Shirley and Betty went to the same elementary school, but Betty left after her thirteenth birthday to start work, whereas Shirley went off to the big high school in town, because her dad runs the store there. Rose is her last name, not her middle name. Shirley’s brother Albert gets razzed sometimes, for having a surname that sounds like a girl’s name, but no-one ever teases Shirley.

They haven’t been in the same space for a few months, but Betty is still swamped with feelings: a surge of joy mixed with a creeping panic, topped off with four or five new worries. Betty always feels strangely worried, when Shirley Rose walks in. She figures most people probably do.

Betty could count the number of times she and Shirley have spoken on one hand. They ran with very different crowds in elementary school: Shirley with the popular girls who were chosen to run errands for the teachers, and Betty with the boys, or no-one at all. The fact that they barely know each other hasn’t stopped Betty from having frighteningly vivid dreams about Shirley asking Betty to go with her into the back room at her dad’s grocery store. The dreams always end before anything good happens. In a way, that’s even scarier, because Betty is uncomfortably aware of what she would consider a _good_ end to the dream.

In a sense, going out with Pete Flaherty last year was not good for Betty in the long run. Before she went out with him, she never thought about touching Shirley with her hands. She didn’t really know what you were supposed to do with your hands when you kissed, particularly if – if it was with another girl. Suffering Pete’s big puppyish hands all over her chest was one of the most embarrassing experiences of Betty’s life so far, but it did teach her a little about what people did together in the dark.

Shirley’s girlfriends leave without her, and Betty and Shirley are left excruciatingly alone. Shirley examines herself in the mirror. Betty stands off to the side, watching and trying to stop herself watching, all at the same time.

Pete always told Betty she was good-looking. Yet somehow, whenever Shirley walks into the same room as Betty, Betty feels as plain as an empty page. How is it that Shirley can stand four feet away from Betty, under the exact same lights, and somehow manage to look like she’s being photographed through gauze? Girls like Shirley just don’t make any _sense._ She knows she ought to despise Shirley for being so gorgeous and rich and utterly untouchable – she does hate her a little, sometimes, for making her feel this way – but mostly, Betty just feels unnerved by her.

Shirley puts her lipstick down on the rim of the sink. It rolls off, clattering audibly to the floor. She doesn’t bend to pick it up, doesn’t even look at it. It’s like she thinks some obedient handmaiden will retrieve it for her.

Betty loses all her pride, whenever she’s around Shirley. “Here,” she says, picking up the lipstick and handing it to her.

Shirley blinks. “Oh, thank you,” she says, taking the lipstick in her perfect princess hand.

 _She probably doesn’t even remember my name,_ Betty thinks. _I’ve never heard her call me by it. I’m such an idiot._

Betty has asked every single girl who’s walked in here tonight whether they had a cigarette. She doesn’t ask Shirley. Instead, as Shirley wafts her way out of the bathroom, Betty says quietly, “Bye, Shirley.” She cringes inwardly as soon as she says it – she sounds so _soppy_ – but at least nobody overheard.

“Bye, _Shirley,_ ” mimics a voice from the corner. Betty gives a start. It’s Ruth Morgan, coming out of one of the stalls. Ruth washes her hands busily, snickering to herself. Betty tries her damnedest not to show that she’s dying of embarrassment.

“Having fun holed up in here, Girl McRae?” Ruth asks, taking Shirley’s vacated space at the mirror.

Sweet, blessed irritation rises inside Betty, distracting her from her humiliation. “I’ve got a name, you know,” she snaps. “I remembered yours, _Ruth._ ”

“Girl McRae remembered my name! I’m honoured,” says Ruth, smirking as she starts to fix her hair. Ruth is a year older than Betty. She’s a big girl, and she wears it well, dancing the Charleston better than anyone in town. Not that anyone is dancing the Charleston tonight; it’s strictly waltzes and foxtrots.

 _Why am I even here?_ thinks Betty. She can’t dance. She can never tell her mom that she can’t dance. Mom sent her off to dancing lessons at the church hall when she was twelve, but Betty spent the dancing money on movies and cigarettes instead. Betty hasn’t been spanked in years, but Betty suspects Dad might make an exception and wallop her around the legs if he ever finds out about Betty treating herself with the dancing money.

“I didn’t realise you were here tonight,” Ruth says conversationally. “I haven’t seen you out on the floor. You waiting for somebody?”

“I was meant to meet Cal Sturbridge,” Betty finds herself saying. She figures everyone probably knows by now.

“Well, he’s out there.” Ruth looks expectantly at Betty. When Betty doesn’t move an inch, Ruth says, “He was asking about you.”

Betty scowls. This is why she can’t stand other girls. Why did Ruth have to be so sneaky, asking if she was meeting anybody, when Ruth knew full well that Cal was looking for Betty?

“Don’t be shy,” says Ruth, grinning like a cat at Betty’s obvious reluctance. “Go on out there. He’s waiting for you. You look fine.”

“I’d rather stay in here a bit longer,” Betty says stiffly.

Ruth eyes her. “Say, can I try on your shawl? It’s real nice.”

Betty shrugs. “If you want.” She hands it over.

Ruth wraps it around herself and turns this way and that. “You’re lucky to be so flat-chested. Clothes hang better off you than they do me.”

“I’m not flat-chested,” Betty protests.

“Everyone’s flat-chested compared to me.” Grinning, Ruth unwraps the shawl and stretches as if to underscore her point. Betty hates herself for it, but she can feel herself going the same colour as Shirley Rose’s lipstick. She doesn’t know Ruth, doesn’t like her that much, but looking at her, she still feels like a bloody boy: hot all over, and embarrassed, and wanting something she doesn’t like to think about but which is getting clearer by the day. The lines of Ruth’s breasts and waist are like a roller coaster. Betty’s never ridden one, but she’s seen picture postcards.

Ruth wouldn’t be drawing attention to her curves if she knew what Betty was. If she knew, she’d be running straight out of the bathroom like her skirt was on fire.

“Quit showing off,” hisses Betty, snatching back the shawl.

Ruth doesn’t seem hugely perturbed by Betty being annoyed with her. She starts fixing the two bead necklaces hanging around her neck. She pulls a face when they won’t hang straight. “Ugh, they always go one way or the other,” she complains. “I really hate having such big tits.”

Betty makes an irritable noise and stomps to the other end of the bathroom. This night couldn’t possibly get any worse than Ruth Morgan commanding Betty to look at her curves.

Ruth looks at Betty over her shoulder. “Hey, you got a cigarette? I forgot mine.”

Betty shakes her head.

“Guess I’ll be going back out there, then,” says Ruth, finishing her primping and giving a little sigh of satisfaction at her own loveliness in the mirror.

“If Cal Sturbridge asks, you never saw me,” Betty says, as threateningly as she can.

Ruth frowns. “Why don’t you like Cal Sturbridge?”

“Huh?”

“I said, why don’t you like Cal Sturbridge? He likes you.”

“You don’t have to like somebody just because they fancy you.” _Me and Shirley Rose are living proof of that._

Ruth turns around, bracing herself against the rim of the sink. “Is there a reason you don’t fancy him?”

 _God, she’s such a gossip,_ Betty thinks, exasperated. “I don’t need to give anybody a reason.”

Ruth laughs. “You’re awful picky about boys. Cal Sturbridge isn’t my type, but I’d go with him if he asked me. Plenty of girls would. You waitin’ for a millionaire or what?”

“I ain’t waiting for anybody. I just don’t like him, and that’s all there is to it.”

Usually, this would be the point where Ruth – any girl – would fall about laughing and dash out of the bathroom, calling for her friends to come and listen to the latest kooky thing that Girl McRae just came out with. Instead, Ruth stands perfectly still, eyeing Betty. It’s making Betty decidedly uncomfortable.

“Betty?” Ruth says at last.

“What is it?” Betty replies a fraction of a second too quickly.

Ruth smiles as kindly as she can, which isn’t very. Ruth has a face like a kewpie doll, but her expression always looks like she’s making fun of whoever she’s talking to. “How ‘bout I make you a proposition?”

“What kind of proposition?”

“I’ll get rid of Cal Sturbridge for you, and all it’ll cost you is that shawl.”

“How?”

“That’s not your concern,” Ruth says, eyes glittering.

“You’re not gonna tell him I didn’t wanna meet him in the first place, are you?” Betty asks warily. She has no interest in dancing with Cal Sturbridge, but she doesn’t need it getting around that she’s been asked out twice and has dumped both boys. It’ll look too suspicious.

Ruth gives a snort. “I like to think I’m a bit more subtle than that.”

Betty frowns. “Why would you help me?”

Ruth gives a languorous shrug. “I’ve taken a fancy to your shawl. I want it, and unless you’re feeling generous enough to hand it over for free, I can see I’m gonna have to do something to earn it. Now, what do you say?”

Betty considers this. “Lady, you got yourself a deal.”

Ruth offers a hand, and they shake on it. Betty finds that she’s smiling, in spite of the miserable evening she’s had. There’s something heartening about running across another girl her age with a pronounced mercenary streak. Betty’s always thought she was the only one.

“You stay in here, and don’t come out for ten minutes,” Ruth says, dusting down her dress like a soldier shouldering his bayonet. “I’ll have gotten rid of him by then, and you can make a run for it.” With that, she strides out of the room, beads clacking softly with the swing of her walk.

There’s no clock in the girls’ cloakroom, so Betty has no way to tell when ten minutes has gone by. Inside her head, she sings a bawdy song her brothers taught her, several times in a row, because she figures it goes for about two minutes. When she finishes her fifth silent rendition of the song, she knows it ought to be safe to go.

She knows they are the same, but she doesn’t know whether to trust Ruth. Betty trusts so few people. She’s not even sure she would trust Shirley, if they were ever to really talk. She’s so used to hiding everything that it feels scary to have Ruth know a fraction of how she feels on the inside.

 _But I have something Ruth wants,_ Betty thinks to herself. It gives her courage, because she might not be good with feelings or friends or any of that girly nonsense, but Betty understands what it is to want something just out of your reach. She understands it all too well, like wanting is a language she knew before she was ever born.

She peeps out of the girls’ room, but the hallway is mostly dark. _This place is such a dump, they can’t even spring for a new light,_ she thinks. The disdain soothes Betty enough for her to make her cautious way into the hallway.

That’s when she sees. Cal is leaning against the far wall, deep in conversation with Ruth. Unfortunately, the main door out of the dance hall is behind the two of them. There’s no way Betty can get to it without Cal seeing her.

Betty stops dead in her tracks. As soon as she wonders about flinging herself back inside the bathroom, Cal looks up and spots her. She dares to hope that he might give up on her and stick with Ruth, but he frowns in recognition and she knows that he’s sore about being stood up.

“Hey! Hey, Betty!” he calls, stepping around Ruth and moving toward Betty.

 _Ruth set me up,_ Betty thinks, agonised, furious. _She planned it this way from the start. She got him to stand there so he’d see me -!_

For some reason, Ruth doesn’t look like she’s gloating. She looks surprised to see Betty, she looks – well, exasperated, like her plan’s been completely wrecked. For one long second, Ruth fixes Betty with a steady gaze before she shoots out a hand, grabs Cal by his shirt, pulls him to her and _kisses_ him. Betty has never seen anyone kiss somebody so ferociously, not even in the movies. Ruth’s hands are mussing Cal’s hair and her body is pressed right up against his. It’s sort of disgusting and impressive all at the same time.

After what seems like an eternity of loud, sloppy necking, Cal and Ruth break apart, panting. “Forget Girl McRae, she’s a kid,” Ruth says breathily. “Come outside with me.”

Cal looks back at Betty briefly. Betty tries to paste a stricken expression on her face. She wonders if she should be ashamed of just how little she cares, that the boy she was meant to be dancing with tonight is going outside with another girl. But as Cal shrugs and goes outside, arm in arm with Ruth, Betty mostly just wants to laugh.

It’s funny how when Betty was trapped in the bathroom, all she wanted to do was leave, and now that she can leave, she finds herself watching the dancers. Shirley Rose is dimly visible among the dancing throng, looking like Cinderella at the ball. Betty can tell from here that her dance card is thick with boys’ eager signatures. She wonders how it would be to march over to her, ask, “Can I cut in?” and whirl away with Shirley’s hand in hers.

Betty gets crushes on girls, and she wants to do the things that boys do. People would probably think that means she wants to be a boy. _Maybe that’s it,_ thinks Betty, _maybe I ought to have been born a boy. Ben McRae, Bobby McRae, something like that._

But the thought doesn’t fire her, doesn’t feel like an epiphany. It’s because she knows it’s not true. If she got to do what she wanted – wear trousers in town instead of just on her parents’ farm, and kiss girls, and never have to marry a man – Betty thinks she’d probably be just fine with being a girl. But it’s useless even to think about, because girls are not allowed to do any of the things Betty wants. She’s going to be stuck in this endless in-between, forever.

She tries to remind herself that even if she could turn back time and be born a boy instead, Shirley would never go for her. If Betty were a boy, she’d be more the middle child than ever, yet another dirty blond McRae son with a cheeky grin, with nothing to make her stand out. Her brother Sam is a real slick dancer, and Bill can make even the sourest old spinster crack a smile, and Joe can drink anyone under the table. She can tell that Tom, George and James Jr, her three younger brothers, are in the same mould. If she were obliged to try and chat up the same girls as them, she wouldn’t have a prayer of getting a single date. Perhaps it’s better that she doesn’t have to compete with anyone, girls or boys.

Ruth Morgan likes kissing boys. If they were better friends, Betty might ask her if there’s some kind of trick to it, some switch you flip to get yourself worked up over a boy. All boys tend to look the same to Betty – Mom rubs her temples in slow circles when Betty can’t describe any of the boys or young men she works with, beyond “brown hair, taller than me, grey eyes – or maybe green, I can’t remember.” Ruth knows the secret that keeps eluding Betty. She can kiss a boy and think nothing of it.

Would Betty kiss a boy for Shirley Rose? She doesn’t know. She doesn’t think so. Maybe that means she’s getting over her crush on Shirley. Betty hopes so. If she can just get over Shirley, and then never notice any other girl, ever again, she’ll be at least one step closer to being normal.

Suddenly, Betty feels someone’s hand on her shoulder. She flinches before she catches a whiff of perfume and realises it’s Ruth.

“Told him I forgot my shawl,” Ruth says boldly, pulling it off Betty and draping it ostentatiously around her own shoulders. “Did I deliver, or did I deliver?”

“Thought you were gonna swallow the man whole,” says Betty, laughing. “It was something to see, let me tell you.”

“I’d better get back out there,” Ruth says, smirking. “When I’m through with him, he won’t look your way ever again.”

“Talk about going above and beyond,” Betty says. This is as close as she ever gets to gushing. She wouldn’t kiss a boy for a hundred dollars, let alone a lousy shawl. Nobody’s ever done something so vile just to help her out before.

“It’s only fair; you should get your money’s worth. Or shawl’s worth.”

Before she knows quite what she’s saying, Betty asks, “Do you really wanna go outside with him?”

“Why shouldn’t I want to?” Ruth asks.

“For a shawl?” Betty asks sceptically. “You’ve _got_ the shawl, I’m not about to ask for it back, and we’ve gotten rid of Sturbridge. We could get outta here, go and find us some real fun. I know where my brothers stash their liquor...”

She doesn’t know why she suddenly feels so friendly toward Ruth, so inclined to steal off into the night with her. Maybe it’s because neither of them acts the way girls are supposed to. Girls aren’t supposed to be stubborn and strange, like Betty, and they’re not supposed to act as pleased with themselves as Ruth does.

For the first time, Ruth looks a little uncertain. “I have to follow through,” she says, and opens her mouth like she wants to say something else, before thinking better of it and closing her mouth again.

“Suit yourself. Whatever makes you happy.”

“Hey, I snagged me a boyfriend and a shawl. I’m _very_ happy,” says Ruth, with a wink.

Betty laughs softly. “Glad we were able to do business. See you around, Ruth.”

Ruth gives a small smile. “See you around, Betty.” For once she doesn’t sound or look like she’s laughing at Betty. After a beat, she asks doubtfully, “You’re really gonna hoof it back to your place, all by yourself, in the dark? Won’t it take hours to walk? And it’s dark out there...”

“S’nothing new to me,” Betty says airily. “I’m not scared.” With that, Betty waves goodbye and slips out into the night, to walk home under the stars.


	2. 1932 - Marion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Trigger warning for abuse.  
> Disclaimer: All characters and environments belong to Michael MacLennan and Adrienne Mitchell/Global/Shaw Media.

Marion stands outside the room attached to the church, wringing her hands together and wishing she was wearing something nicer than what she has on. Her green frock was cut down from an old housedress of her mother’s. It’s the closest thing Marion has had to a new outfit in a year. From the confines of the invisible box Marion has lived in all her life, she is dimly aware that lots of girls are in the same boat as her. Barely anybody gets pretty new dresses any more, with the economy being what it is. In church last week, Marion overheard a girl complaining bitterly to her mother about the state of their family’s clothing. That girl’s brother was even worse off than Marion’s; his shoes were patched with bits of an old bicycle tyre. Marion would be embarrassed too, turning up to church with her family in that sort of state, and yet – and yet, the idea of someone her age questioning adults made Marion so uncomfortable, so frightened. She didn’t know where to look or what to do with her face. It would have been less awkward if the girl had flung herself on the ground and thrown a tantrum like a toddler.

She shouldn’t be dwelling on another’s misfortune like this, but it feels better than thinking about how funny she must look to anyone passing by. Marion has been here for the past ten minutes, trying to make herself breathe normally before she knocks on the door. It wouldn’t do for Miss Gardner to answer, only to find Marion passed out on the steps from lack of air.

_Knock on the door,_ she orders herself, but continues standing still as a statue. God help her, she’s actually trembling. How she wishes there was someone to hold her hand through this. _I want my mother,_ she thinks miserably, on the verge of crumpling into anxious tears. Mother doesn’t know that she’s here, though. Marion tells Mother everything, but she couldn’t tell her about this. She’s knows perfectly well that Mother wouldn’t tell – she’s always discreet when Marion scorches one of Richie’s shirts with a too-hot iron, or looks at boys in church. Marion’s not sure how she feels about _what_ she feels, yet. In her family, a person has to be very, very sure of everything they say out loud.

She briefly considered bringing along her youngest brother Walter, who is not quite three years old, just so she would have someone to hug, but he yells aloud about everything he sees. He would probably give the game away, shout out at the precise moment she takes the note out of her pocket...

_Oh, you idiot, why won’t you knock? You’ll end up creeping off, and it’ll all be for nothing. It’s disgusting how cowardly you are. You’re a disgrace._ She doesn’t know which one of her old make-believe friends is telling her off. It’s most likely her pretend older sister, who has become quite catty these past few years. Marion’s imaginary big sister used to wipe away her tears and play games with her, but nowadays she’s much more likely to roll her eyes and sneer. She sometimes worries it might make her just a little bit mad, to imagine people as vividly as she does, to imagine them being so wildly unimpressed. At the same time, Marion figures it’s more realistic that way. That’s just the way her pretend people would act if they were real. They know more about how she is inside than anyone besides God, so it’s natural for them to get impatient or angry with her. Now, if Marion were making up a whole bevy of make-believe people to dote and fawn over her, _that_ would be a problem. It would be prideful of her. At least she’s not that far gone. Marion is well aware that she has nothing, nothing whatsoever to be proud of.

Marion screws up every atom of courage she has within her, ignores the voice shrieking _Just walk away, you know you’re not brave enough_ inside her skull, and raps on the door with her knuckles. Two long knocks, then six quick little ones. The first bar of _Lord of the Dance._ Marion’s never had her own knock. Maybe this could be it. Father would probably tell her off if he overheard, though. He would think it was irreverent.

A young woman in a pink and grey frock answers the door, banishing all thoughts of personal knocks from Marion’s mind. “Oh, hello there,” says the lady.

“Hi, Miss Gardner,” says Marion, sounding like she’s run all the way across town to stand here … which she more or less has. It seems those ten minutes of deep breathing didn’t do a darned thing.

“I didn’t expect to see you again,” Miss Gardner says, with the same gentle and lovely smile she probably gives to all the children in her Sunday school class. Marion has spent the past weeks wishing, _wishing_ she could trade places with her little brother Richard, and be young enough to still attend Sunday school. Seeing Miss Gardner in church and at choir practice doesn’t feel like it’s anywhere near enough. Father would like her more, too, if she were only nine, and not fifteen. Marion’s whole life would be better, if only she could somehow turn back time and be really young, five or six or even younger. Too young to notice anything, too young to feel.

Marion clears her throat. “We are. I just came here because – um, because Father said I should say goodbye and thank you, since we’re leaving tomorrow.”

Father said no such thing. He wasn’t terribly fond of Miss Gardner. If he weren’t Marion’s father, she would have thought his reasons for not liking Miss Gardner were … well, silly. Things like her hairstyle (Father hates women who wear their hair short), and the way she carries on at choir practice, holding hands with her fiancé in front of everyone. Unseemly behaviour, Father called it, not befitting a Sunday school teacher.

Marion told lies so that she could come here. She hates lying, but Father wouldn’t have let her come otherwise.

“Well, there’s no need to thank me,” Miss Gardner says politely. “It was a pleasure having Richard in my Sunday school class, and you in the choir.”

They gaze at each other for a moment. Miss Gardner raises her eyebrows ever-so-slightly.

“Actually, I came along for another reason as well,” Marion says. “Richie can’t find his jacket. Do you mind if I see if it’s in here, before you lock up?”

“Not at all,” says Miss Gardner. “You look here, and I’ll check the back room.”

Marion beams. “I appreciate it very much,” she says, and means it, because she can see Miss Gardner’s handbag lying on one of the desks.

Miss Gardner’s Sunday school is far too sprawling for the tiny room it resides in. There are so many desks that it’s hard to move around quickly. Miss Gardner seems used to it, though, manoeuvring her way through the crowded room with ease and ducking into the back room. Marion makes an elaborate pantomime of searching for Richie’s jacket. She stomps her shoes to camouflage the tiny noises she makes, pulling a piece of folded notepaper out of her pocket and tucking it inside Miss Gardner’s handbag.

A minute or so later, Miss Gardner walks back in, frowning. “It doesn’t seem to be there. Tell your parents that I’m sorry. I know children’s clothes are hard to come by nowadays.”

Marion reddens. “I’m sure it’ll turn up,” she says hastily. As a matter of fact, she knows it will. The jacket is stashed in the lower branches of a tree just outside the church. She put it there this morning, just after service, so she would have an excuse to come and say goodbye to Miss Gardner, and leave her the note.

“Well,” says Miss Gardner. “It was good to see you again, Marion.”

She’s trying to say that she wants Marion to go, so she can shut up the classroom. Marion ought to go. She’s done what she needs to do. Yet Marion finds herself saying, “Is there anything I can help you with, before I leave?”

“Hmm.” Miss Gardner casts around. “I was just shutting the blinds when you knocked at the door. Could you get those last two, while I check I have everything I need?”

Marion nods. “Of course!”

The blinds squeak shrilly as Marion tries in vain to shut them. It takes forever to get one even halfway down. It’s lopsided too. There is probably a trick to it, but she doesn’t want to bother Miss Gardner.

“You need some help, Marion?” Miss Gardner calls.

“I’m just fine,” says Marion, resorting to yanking the blinds down with her hands. She wouldn’t ever regret an offer to help Miss Gardner, but she feels foolish, knowing that this will be Miss Gardner’s last ever impression of her: Marion making a total mess of something ridiculously easy. It’s the story of Marion’s life, it seems. She’s not good at anything much, except for singing and taking care of people. She’s never wanted to be anything more than what she is, until she met Miss Gardner and found out that a woman could be so wonderful...

“Hello, what’s this?” Marion hears a rustle and turns to see Miss Gardner extricating something from her jumbled handbag. It’s the note, Marion’s note. Marion’s heart doesn’t sink so much as it plummets straight through the floorboards. She didn’t get away with it after all. This is God punishing her for thinking that her pathetic feelings were so very important that they merited lies and scheming...

“Seems like someone’s left me a mash note,” says Miss Gardner. “How funny! I thought my secret admirer days were over.”

Marion winces. _She thinks it’s from one of the little boys in her Sunday school class, or one of the young men in the choir. She’s going to be so disappointed –_

“They probably wouldn’t want you to open it in front of me,” she says weakly. “I should leave-”

But Miss Gardner’s smiling at her as she unfolds the paper. She expects Marion to stay here and read it with her, so they can giggle over it together, over some phantom besotted boy. There isn’t a boy, though. There’s only Marion. Why, why didn’t she sign it with a false name? Why is she so stupid?

Marion wants to bolt, but her feet feel like they’ve been glued to the spot. She braces herself for the worst. Miss Gardner will yell and scream at her. It will be awful. People with quiet voices always sound the scariest when they shout...

It seems like an eternity before Miss Gardner looks up. “Marion?”

“You weren’t meant to find it until after I’d left,” Marion says wretchedly. “I’m so sorry.”

Miss Gardner laughs. She starts to walk over to Marion. “Why should you be sorry?”

“It’s silly,” Marion insists. “I shouldn’t have – I just wanted to...” She trails off. Wanted to what? To tell Miss Gardner that she’s spent the past weeks feverishly practicing her singing in the hopes that she might get a smile, a nod, an acknowledgement of any kind when it came time for choir practice? That every time she’s collected Richard from Sunday school, she’s interrogated him about what Miss Gardner was wearing that morning, what Bible story she told the class? That Marion keeps having fantasies about living with Miss Gardner after she’s grown up, even though she knows full well that Miss Gardner is getting married in April? Marion didn’t end up saying any of those things in the note. She couldn’t, not to anyone. Not ever. But she had to tell Miss Gardner _something._ It felt like she would explode if she didn’t.

Miss Gardner smiles patiently, like Marion’s a six-year-old child who can’t remember all the Apostles. “If someone wrote you a note like this, would you think it was silly?”

“I-” She wonders whether Miss Gardner is making fun of her. Marion knows she’s nothing special. Nobody will ever get tongue-tied around Marion, or memorise dozens of tiny facts about her, or want nothing more in the world than to see her smile. Miss Gardner would make Marion feel utterly hopeless if she didn’t also make her so happy.

Miss Gardner is reading the note again. Marion knows it by heart. She drafted it over and over, shredding each version to destroy the evidence, before copying it out in her best handwriting. She wanted so much to make it perfect for Miss Gardner. She thought it was at least passable, when she dropped it inside Miss Gardner’s purse, but now she’s not so sure.

_Dear Miss Gardner,_ the note says.

_This is just to let you know how much I enjoyed being in the church choir with you. I am very shy, so I found it difficult to make friends with any of the other young people. But I would go through all of it a hundred times, if it meant meeting you all over again._

_With love and very best wishes from Marion Rowley (Pastor Rowley’s daughter)._

“Do you want to know what I think?” Miss Gardner asks. “I think it’s the nicest letter I’ve ever gotten.”

“Really?” Marion winces as soon as the word escapes her lips. What if it sounds like she’s fishing for compliments? Father can’t stand it when Marion is sly, when she angles for praise. Women ought to be humble, not artful and proud. Up until this year, Father always said “children” or “little girls” when he was shouting at Marion, but she’s a woman in his eyes now. She doesn’t much want to be. Sin is what turns little girls into women.

“I’ll keep it forever,” Miss Gardner promises. “To remember you by.”

With that, Miss Gardner moves forward and hugs Marion. Marion surprises herself by hugging Miss Gardner back, rather than swooning bodily to the floor. She hugs Miss Gardner like this is perfectly normal, like beautiful grown-up women hug Marion every day of the week. _I’ll remember this moment as long as I live,_ Marion _doesn’t_ think, because who can think when the most incredible thing in the world is happening?

As Miss Gardner releases her, Marion blurts out something idiotic. She always does, in front of people she really likes. “I was so scared you’d be angry with me.”

Miss Gardner frowns. “Why on earth would I be?”

“I don’t know.” Marion knows she has to be careful. She’s so smitten with Miss Gardner right now that if she lets herself talk, she’ll start confessing all kinds of forbidden things. She’ll start blabbing about what it’s like with Father in the evenings. Her father calls attention to everything Marion does wrong, until she gets so nervous that she does something unforgivable like burning dinner or sticking Walt with a diaper pin. She knows all fathers are supposed to be firm with their children, but she would die if Miss Gardner found out how wicked she really is, how much correction she requires. Anyway, Marion doesn’t want to think about being bad. She just wants to live in this moment forever.

Miss Gardner is looking increasingly worried. Marion knows she’ll have to say something. “You looked like you thought the note was from a boy. I’m sorry for letting you down.”

Shaking her head, Miss Gardner says, “You didn’t let me down, Marion.”

“But nobody wants a – a mash note from a girl,” says Marion, blushing.

Miss Gardner sits down on one of the desks, fixing Marion with her soft grey gaze. “Let me tell you something. When I was thirteen, I thought my big sister’s friend was absolutely terrific. I wish I’d thought to write her a lovely note, so she would have known just how terrific.”

All of a sudden, Marion is grinning all over her face. She must look like an idiot, but she doesn’t care, because Miss Gardner _knows,_ she knows how Marion feels and she seems to think it’s all right. To know that someone like Miss Gardner once had the same feelings as Marion is incredible. “She must’ve been very special, for you to think such a lot of her.”

“I wanted her to be my big sister and my best friend, and also for me to grow up to be just like her.” Miss Gardner smiles reminiscently. “I wonder what happened to her? I suppose she’s married now, with a family.”

“I suppose she must be,” Marion agrees.

“Now, I hope you won’t mind if I show my fiancé your note. He’ll think it’s very cute.”

Marion isn’t at all sure about this. She knows Miss Gardner’s fiancé is a good person – how could he be anything else, to be marrying Miss Gardner? – but she doesn’t really like the idea of more than one person knowing about the note. She hasn’t a clue how to say no, though, so Marion decides not to think about it too much. Instead, Marion asks, “What’s your fiancé called?”

“Joshua Morrow.”

Marion tries out the name. “Joshua Morrow.” She likes the way it feels on her lips. “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but what’s your Christian name, Miss Gardner?” Marion knows full well that it’s Grace, but she’s not allowed to call adults by their first names.

“Grace. Grace Gardner.” Miss Gardner makes a face. “I will be _very_ glad to change my surname.”

“Grace and Joshua Morrow. You sound nice together. I hope I marry someone I sound nice with, someday.” Marion fidgets. “I know I’m not making much sense,” she mumbles. It sounds less attention-seeking than saying she already knows she’s never getting married. Marion wouldn’t marry herself in a million years, because she knows just how bad she is.

“You make a lot more sense than you think.” Miss Gardner gets to her feet, shoulders her bag and takes out the key to the classroom. “I’ll have to lock up now, but is there anywhere I can walk you?”

_Yes, please, walk me home, walk me all the way to China,_ Marion implores silently, but she knows there’s too many reasons why she shouldn’t walk anywhere with Miss Gardner. Not least because she still has to retrieve Richie’s jacket, and she’s not a good enough actress to pretend she just happened to find it draped over a tree branch. “No, thanks, but it’s kind of you to offer.”

Marion tries not to look baleful as she stands out on the front step again, watching Miss Gardner lock the front door. “So you’re leaving tomorrow?” Miss Gardner asks.

“Yes, first thing.”

“How long will you stay in the next town?”

“Not long, I expect,” says Marion, shrugging. “We’re never anywhere longer than a month.”

“It sounds a very adventurous life. You are a lucky girl.”

Marion nods mutely. She would prefer for Miss Gardner to think of her as lucky and adventurous, instead of the way she really is.

“You said in the note that you have trouble making friends, though?”

“I don’t really need friends my own age. I get on much better with older people.” After a moment’s hesitation, Marion says boldly, “That’s why I like you so much, Miss Gardner.”

Miss Gardner nudges her. “Older?! You’ve got a nerve!”

For one horrible second, Marion thinks she must have really offended Miss Gardner. _I didn’t mean it,_ she thinks, terrified. _I was trying to be nice-!_ Then she sees that Miss Gardner is laughing, and Marion forces herself to laugh too. It’s a difficult thing to do. She wouldn’t dare laugh at her father seconds after saying something that _might_ have offended him.

“I’m sure you’ll have lots of friends once you settle down someplace. Your father can’t keep you on the road the rest of your life, can he?”

“Well, he … I – I’ll miss you,” says Marion in a small voice, because it’s the only true thing she can let herself say aloud right now.

Miss Gardner smiles. “Take good care of yourself, won’t you?”

“I will, Miss Gardner,” says Marion.

“Grace,” Miss Gardner corrects her gently. “I think that’s best, don’t you? It’s not so long until you’re grown up. You’ll hardly be calling me Miss Gardner then, will you?”

“I guess not.” Marion fidgets with one of her plaits to try and draw attention away from her face. She feels so happy and so numb, at the same time. “Goodbye … Grace.”

“Goodbye, Marion.”

Marion gives a little wave and runs down the path, slips through the gate. She walks partway down the street, before ducking into a boarded-up doorway. From the meagre cover the shadows afford, she keeps her eyes on Miss Gardner’s blonde head until she turns the corner, and is lost to Marion’s sight.

Sighing to herself, Marion leaves her hiding place to pull her brother’s jacket down from the tree. She means to fold it nicely, but ends up crumpling it as the sheer enormity of what has just happened dawns on her.

_It was all right,_ she thinks. _She didn’t mind, she thought it was all right. She told me to call her Grace. She_ hugged _me..._

If Marion were younger and sillier, she would start skipping. But who needs to skip, when they feel like they could fly?


	3. 1934 - Gladys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: All characters and environments belong to Michael MacLennan and Adrienne Mitchell/Global/Shaw Media.
> 
> Notes: This is my first time writing Gladys’ POV, so forgive me if it’s terrible!

It’s a bright and beautiful Saturday morning at Miss Godfrey’s, a fashionable girls’ boarding school, home to about a hundred girls from very suitable families. Ninety-eight of them are currently engaged in various pleasant activities and pastimes – reading, writing letters home, packing overnight bags for weekend stays with family friends, playing sports. A gaggle of senior girls go trooping past the school’s largest wing in their gym things, carrying racquets jauntily over their shoulders. One of them looks decently abashed at the sight of Carol Demers and Gladys Witham slumped indoors, waiting to be let into their classroom. The rest have no apparent qualms of conscience about hurrying off to play tennis while Gladys and Carol are sentenced to extra prep. Gladys tries to project a queenly iciness for the benefit of the one girl who happened to glance at her. She mouths, “Betrayed!” at Carol, who is so downcast she doesn’t notice.

“I don’t know how those _rats_ can flaunt their freedom like that. They’re completely shameless,” Gladys says aloud, sending a supremely disdainful glance at the senior girls’ backs.

“I feel so stupid,” says Carol in a small voice, staring down at her skinny knees, clad in lisle stockings.

Gladys blanchs at her. “Why should you feel stupid? You were tremendous. They’re the ones who sold us down the Swannee.” She shakes her head at the sheer absurdity of Carol’s statement. “I can’t believe we ever wanted to be friends with them.”

“Well, you insisted,” mutters Carol. “You said both of us were going to _be somebody_ this term. And now look what’s happened...”

“Don’t you fret about it, Carol. I’m formulating a plan as we speak.”  Gladys nods decisively. “Vengeance will be sweet.”

Ordinarily, revenge is not a concept that appeals much to Gladys. She’s much more comfortable with payback. Payback is something different, a straightforward exchange between equals. Payback is what she and her older brother Laurence deal in. There is a code of honour to payback that doesn’t exist with revenge. But Gladys feels like she has to promise revenge, swear revenge, because it’s for Carol. Because she got Carol involved in her mess, and now she has to make some grand gesture because she doesn’t know how else to fix it.

Carol doesn’t look terribly heartened by Gladys’ pronouncement. Gladys always says something along those lines – _I have a plan, I know what we should do, trust me, listen to me_ – before they both get into terrible trouble. Once word gets to their parents about Gladys’ latest scheme, they’ll be in the biggest trouble ever, even worse than the time Gladys stole the keys to her parents’ car so she could drive herself, Carol and Laurence to the circus.

This latest misdemeanour began one evening during the Easter break. Mother and Father were at the club, Laurie was visiting a friend. Gladys was utterly alone in the house (aside from the housekeeper and the maid). She found herself in an itchy, mischievous, snooping sort of mood. She ended up tiptoeing into Laurence’s bedroom, to see if she could find where he hid his private things. As far as she was concerned, Laurence had it coming to him.  Laurence read Gladys’ diary last summer, and found out about hers and Carol’s shared crush on their Latin teacher. Gladys didn’t really mind him knowing, but that wasn’t the point. It was the principle of the thing. She’d sworn a solemn oath to Carol that she would never tell anyone, especially Laurie. Gladys can’t abide breaking promises to her best friend.

Whenever Gladys asks herself, _If I were Laurence, where would I hide something secret?_ it doesn’t feel like a rhetorical question. They look alike, both of them with Mother’s eyes and Father’s build. Though Laurence is two years older than Gladys, people often used to ask Mother if they were twins. They have the same temperament as well. She knows he gets into these sneaky moods too. He was almost certainly in one when he read her diary. Gladys has always thought of Laurence as the other half of her, for better or worse. Perhaps that’s why it stings so much when their parents treat them so differently.

It didn’t take her long to hit paydirt. She found a dog-eared paperback with a creased red cover, jammed between the headboard of Laurie’s bed and the wall. Gladys flipped through about five pages and promptly let out a gasp of mixed delight, disgust and astonishment. It was a sex book – much juicier than that dull old diary she kept stopping and starting all through last year! Gladys didn’t understand all of it, but she could work out enough to realise that if she brought the book back to school with her, she – and Carol along with her – could become a hero.

She couldn’t pack the book in her luggage, because Mother and the housekeeper always do Gladys’ packing for her. She had to smuggle it inside her dress, which was dreadfully exciting, especially during a hairy moment when Mother and Gladys were saying farewell by the doors of the school dormitory. Mother opened her arms for a brisk, back-patting A-frame hug. Gladys moved forward and allowed herself to be held for a few seconds, but kept her arms wrapped around her own midsection.

Mother frowned as she released her. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing’s the matter, Mother.”

“You’ve been hunched over like Quasimodo all morning, it’s very unattractive. Why are you standing like that?” Mother narrowed her eyes. “You’re hiding something.”

“I am _not,_ ” said Gladys, stepping back hastily. She immediately had a brainwave. With a meaningful glance toward some little first-year bawling into her mother’s bosom, Gladys raised her voice and said, “It’s just my time of the month, that’s all.”

The first-year’s mother scowled and hustled her daughter away. Gladys’ mother went white. “Gladys Witham, you keep your voice down!”

“I don’t see why I should,” said Gladys, blinking her eyes slowly in a perfect imitation of genuine puzzlement. “It’s a perfectly natural thing that every girl should know about. If _I_ ran the school, I would abolish needlepoint and teach classes about periods instead.”

When Gladys started her period last year, she asked one of the maids what was happening to her. Steadfastly avoiding Gladys’ gaze, the maid mumbled, “You must have cut your leg.”

Gladys frowned. “No, it’s not my leg, Doris. It’s, um, higher up.”

“I don’t think I should be talking to you about this. Go and ask your mother,” said Doris, looking uncomfortable and pitying all at the same time.

“My _mother?_ ” Gladys repeated incredulously, but Doris dived out of the room and fled down the stairs, leaving her alone and utterly bewildered.

Luckily, the Withams have some medical books in their library (a well-meaning gift from Gladys’ second cousin Jeremy, a women’s doctor, who is never spoken of in front of guests), so Gladys was able to find out what was happening to her. Gladys told Carol and all the girls in her dormitory, including a few who were older than she was. It seemed the right thing to do, but her mother hit the roof when she found out. It was one of the few things Mother didn’t immediately go to Gladys’ father about. Gladys sometimes suspects that Daddy may not even know what a period is. And Mother? Well, even a year on, as far as getting Mother to forget about Gladys’ strange posture and stranger behaviour went, talking about her time of the month in public definitely did the trick.

After Gladys’ mother had flounced off to the car ( _No doubt to retrieve a bottle stashed under the seat. I have no doubt that me having periods is enough to drive her to drink,_ Gladys thought scornfully), Gladys implemented her plan. Within five minutes, she had located Carol and shown her the book. Within fifteen, she had talked their way into the senior girls’ dormitory. Inside of half an hour, eight of the senior girls were crowded around the battered paperback, shrieking with laughter.

It seems not everyone was laughing, though. Someone sold them out. Gladys doesn’t know who it was, and she doesn’t know why. Maybe someone thought it was too presumptuous of her, to try and buy her way into the most exclusive group in the school with a dirty novel. Maybe they just got scared of being implicated in a scandal. Gladys knows she ought not to be hugely concerned for their reasons. Empathy doesn’t go well with vengeance, and vengeance is what she has to seek, now. It’s not so much that someone told on her as the way they chose to do it. They could have ratted her out to the prefects or even the headmistress, but they didn’t. They did something so much worse.

Carol got called out of French yesterday afternoon. Gladys didn’t think anything of it, until she overheard two girls in the year below, giggling in the lunch line about how they’d seen Carol Demers waiting outside the headmistress’ study.

“She looked like an ice cream,” sniggered one. “All white and wet. She’ll be catching it, for sure. I wouldn’t be surprised if her parents have to find her another school.”

It sunk in for Gladys what must have happened. That moment was the only time in this whole affair that she’s felt really, truly panicked. She abandoned her lunch, leaving it to grow cold and congealed, and dashed through the corridors as though her shoes had wings. Gladys hammered on the door of the headmistress’ study and lunged in like an avenging angel, shouting, “If you want to expel someone, expel me.”

“Miss Witham, this is unseemly,” their headmistress scolded her, but Gladys wasn’t looking at her. She stared at Carol, searching her face. Carol didn’t look like ice cream at all, not to Gladys. She looked at Carol then, and knew – just knew – that Carol hadn’t broken, hadn’t given her up, no matter how frightened she was. Gladys beamed from ear to ear, despite her pounding heart, and didn’t give a damn what happened to her. All that mattered was that Carol had tried to save her, and Gladys had saved Carol in return.

Neither of their noble sacrifices ended up amounting to much, though. They have both been punished, Gladys for bringing filth into school, and Carol for trying to take the blame. They have been sentenced to three months of extra prep at weekends. They’re barred from the annual tea-dance with their brother school, barred from going into town or the pictures or even to stay with friends. The only places permitted are church and classes and prep. Carol cried herself to sleep last night. Gladys knows it was because of the letters that have been sent to their parents.

Gladys knows it’s strange (knows _she’s_ strange), but there’s a part of her that almost relishes the explosion of her parents’ anger. A part of her that finds their anger fascinating, rewarding even. At least this way, they’ll know that they can’t control her. They ought to know how – how _bloody_ tired it makes her, being her parents’ good little girl.

Sometimes, when she’s expected to act the part of the good daughter, Gladys gets so mad she could spit. When she was little, she used to pretend she was somewhere else, somebody different. When she was eleven, Gladys read _Anne of Green Gables._ In the book, Anne is confined to her room until she apologises for flying off the handle at someone who called her ugly. It struck Gladys as terribly unfair, when she read it. She almost shoved the book to the back of her cupboard then and there. Unfairness rankles Gladys more than just about anything. But she kept reading, and it was marvellous. Anne gave the most incredible _performance_ of an apology, practically prostrating herself before this dreadful woman. When she read that scene, Gladys laughed so hard that Daddy asked her sharply if she was having some sort of attack.

That’s what Gladys does now, whenever her parents and their silly double standards make her boil inside ( _Of course Laurence could sit up with the men after dinner at fifteen, a boy is almost a man at fifteen, a boy has to learn to talk business and politics, you’re just a little girl and all you need learn is how to look pretty and keep your lip zipped-_ ). When they want her to be good, she’s almost _too_ good, so aggressively, sarcastically good that everyone can tell she’s putting it on. It drives her parents crazy, but they can’t tell her off for it because technically she’s doing exactly as she’s told.

That worked beautifully for a few years, but it’s getting wearing. Gladys often finds herself wanting to just pretend again. In fact, she still pretends sometimes, when she’s alone, just to keep her spirits up. (It’s the closest she can get to being honest without being bad, and dragging poor long-suffering Carol down with her.) It’s not really _playing_ any more, though. Nowadays, when Gladys pretends, she calls it acting.

Gladys yearns to be a film star when she grows up, like Claudette Colbert. When she’s grown, Gladys will live in a mansion in Hollywood, a beautiful new one built just for her, with stained-glass windows and a telephone in the bathroom so she can call her agent while she takes bubble baths. She’ll have a dozen handsome callers every week, and she will learn to fly a biplane so she can play Amelia Earhart. She can see it all so clearly that once or twice, she’s phoned real estate agents in California and asked them about properties in a very grown-up voice. She doesn’t dare phone a talent agency yet, in case she loses her composure and starts giggling.

Carol is the only one who knows. She isn’t _officially_ sworn to secrecy about Gladys’ thespian ambitions, but she still doesn’t breathe a word about it to anyone. It’s funny that people tend to think Gladys is the grown-up one in their friendship. Carol grows out of so many things first. She always takes stock of a situation much more quickly and efficiently than Gladys, who tries to see what she wants to see. Gladys can’t see what she wants to see now. Carol keeps sending Gladys little sideways looks and _humphing_ softly. Her eyes are curiously bright and she shifts in her seat.

“You’re not _really_ cross with me, are you?” Gladys asks tentatively.

“Yes, I am!” Carol snaps, a couple of frustrated, embarrassed tears tumbling down her cheeks. “Our parents will be furious!”

“Well, if Mother and Father ship me off to a convent, I hope they have the decency to pick one in the South Seas,” says Gladys. At Carol’s stony expression, she says, “Listen, if anyone’s catching hell, it ought to be Laurie. He’s the one who had the book in his room.”

“And you’re the one who went poking around in there!”

“You can’t say it wasn’t interesting, though.” Gladys waggles her eyebrows, hoping to make Carol laugh.

Carol groans. “I wish I’d never read it. I can’t stop picturing every grown-up I know doing ... _that._ ”

Gladys laughs. “Oh, Carol, you’re so innocent. I can’t believe you didn’t know.”

Carol goes pink in the face. “You didn’t know much more than me.”

“I knew enough,” says Gladys airily, although it was embarrassingly recently that she truly thought that babies grew out of their mothers’ belly buttons. She’s awfully glad they don’t. The truth is far more interesting. She feels like she might actually consider having a baby someday, if she got to have sex first. Gladys delves into the pocket of her uniform and brings out a hankie. “Come on, dry your eyes,” she says bracingly, passing it to Carol.

From behind the meagre protection afforded by Gladys’ hankie, Carol says, “My parents … sometimes I’m frightened that if I’m not good, they won’t love me any more.”

Gladys looks at Carol. She knows the proper thing to do would be to say, _“Oh, no, don’t be silly, your parents will love you no matter what!”_ Having known the Demers family since she was six, Gladys is probably more qualified to make that judgement than any of Carol’s other friends. But Gladys is very _im_ proper, always has been, can’t change it, doesn’t want to, so she finds herself saying, “Sometimes I worry about that too.”

“My big sisters _never_ got into trouble when they were at school,” says Carol, with a tragic little sniff. “I can’t measure up to them, no matter how hard I try.”

“At least there’s only the one set of rules for the three of you. You’re lucky you don’t have a brother,” says Gladys. After a moment, she asks, “Carol?”

“Yes?”

“Am I a terrible best friend?”

“No,” says Carol, shaking her head. “No, I love having you as my best friend. I just wish you would think about things.”

Gladys does think, though. She thinks all the time. And sometimes – sometimes it’s like she can see herself doing these silly things, almost as if she’s someone else, watching, but she can’t stop herself because if she stopped, she would have to take stock of her situation in a way that would be unbearable. Gladys wants to be somebody, wants to run away to Hollywood, somewhere no-one will judge her or scold her. Somewhere people will appreciate things about her, apart from that she’s pretty and has impeccable manners when it suits her. Somewhere she can get away from the double standards, the hypocrisy, the pressure to be a good girl, everything that makes her want to scream.

That day when Gladys stole the keys to her parents’ car, Mother told Gladys and Laurence’s nanny that they wouldn’t be going to the circus after all. Mother asked their nanny to telephone Carol’s parents and ask them not to have her dropped at the Withams’, because Laurence and Gladys were both sickening for something. _But I feel fine,_ Gladys thought, even as she was swamped with bitter disappointment. _I’m not sick, and I want to go to the circus._ Gladys marched up to her mother’s room to complain, but stopped outside the door when she heard Mother crying.

Gladys sat on the stairs and _thought,_ and it hurt so much that she didn’t have any option but to steal the driver’s keys. Gladys honestly felt like she would die, right there on the stairs, at the age of nine and a half, if she didn’t get to go to the circus with her brother and her best friend. _Take the keys. Take the car. Drive to Carol’s. Drive to the circus._ All of that seemed so much simpler to think about than why Mother was crying, or why Daddy hadn’t come home from the club the previous night...

Gladys considers Carol’s words for a moment before beckoning her close. Carol offers her ear, clearly expecting some apology, some explanation.

“Imagine,” Gladys whispers, “that we’re chained up in the Bastille, waiting for the Three Musketeers to come and rescue us...”

Carol gives her a long, incredulous look. She seems to wrestle with a dozen questions at once – _Why are you trying to make me play make-believe right now, how will we keep being best friends if our parents send us to separate convents in the Swiss Alps and the South Seas, why are you so impossible, why are you always getting us both into trouble?_ – before finally asking, “Why would we _want_ to be in the Bastille?”

Gladys shrugs. “I’d say it’s an improvement over extra prep.”

“All right, then,” Carol says, after a minute. “Why are we locked up?”

Gladys grins. “We staged a daring rescue to liberate Sydney Carton from the guillotine at the very last second. He escaped with his life, but now we’re martyrs for the cause.”

“That’s two different books,” says Carol, smiling at long last.

“You just wait until Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde show up,” Gladys teases her. Their housemother from the dormitory appears at the end of the corridor, staring sourly at them as she takes out the key to let them into the classroom. “Ooh, look, the warden,” whispers Gladys.

“Gladys, shhh!” murmurs Carol, stifling a laugh. “Do you want to get in more trouble?” She ducks her head and tries to look contrite.

Gladys is not at all interested in being contrite. Now that Carol is back on her side, it’s the easiest thing in the world for Gladys to pick up her chin and assume a look of absolute dignity. They can throw her inside a cell every day forever, but Gladys Witham is no-one’s prisoner, no-one’s pawn, no-one’s _good little girl_. She will never stop dreaming of escape.


End file.
